Page 2 of Still The One

‘You know what else prevents chaos?’ Genevieve asks.

‘Huh?’ I reply, sitting my coffee on the desk in front of me as I read through the electronic room board, familiarizing myself with my patients.

‘Not working eighty hours a week,’ Gen says, giving me a knowing look.

‘It wasn’t eighty last week,’ I confess.

‘What was it then?’

‘Um.’ I sit at my computer, typing in my unique login. ‘Seventy-six.’

Genevieve chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You seriously need a vacation.’

‘And saving for that is exactly what I’m doing with all this overtime.’

‘Who’s going on vacation?’ Dr Bradly, our assigned physician, asks. A very full backpack hangs off one shoulder and a dark green Stanley cup, the biggest size they offer, is in one hand, filled with black coffee to keep himself focused. He’s wearing his usual dark blue scrubs and by the look of his tousled hair, I’d say he just woke and ran. ‘And did I approve it?’

‘HR approves vacations, not doctors,’ I remind him.

‘Thank God,’ Gen mumbles behind me.

She’s right. Most doctors I know are also workaholics, partly because the healthcare industry is severely understaffed right now. So putting the fate of our vacation days in their hands would be a terrible idea.

‘But nobody is going on vacation,’ I reassure him. ‘Gen is just dreaming again. I mean, look at her monitor background.’

Troy (aka Dr Bradly) glances at Gen’s workstation. ‘Bahamas?’

‘Fiji,’ Gen says with a happy sigh. ‘Honeymoon shot.’

Troy chuckles, shaking his head. ‘You’re not even dating anyone, Genevieve.’

She shrugs playfully. ‘A girl can dream, can’t she?’

I finish scanning through the patient charts for Trauma 2, mentally preparing myself for whatever may come through those doors today. As we settle in for our shift, the ER starts bustling with activity. The chaos – also known as controlled pandemonium – is oddly comforting to me. Saving lives is adance I know well, the steps familiar even when the music changes.

A couple of fender-bender patients – one with a broken nose from hitting his steering wheel, and another with ‘claimed’ whiplash – fill my morning, and after lunch seems to be the calm before the storm. After checking in on a couple of patients still awaiting a hospital room, I pull up my email to make sure I haven’t missed anything. And by anything, I mean extra shifts I could take via the internal employee-only hospital site. Nothing.

I grab my phone, sipping my coffee as I scroll through socials again. My mom’s ‘book post’ on Facebook stops me as I read her thoughts on the most boring book alive –Moby Dick– her favorite. She’s always described the novel as the perfect example of the monster your mind can create if you let it. ‘An idle mind is the devil’s playground,’ she used to say. A lesson she learned after being married to my father for ten years too long (her words).

I scroll again. Kait got her Botox redone and is announcing it to the world, which is weird. Then I stop… a Facebook memory. Crap. I hate these. I scroll to the post, sucking in a breath at the sight of it. I glance at the date on the top of our patient board – September 27. Christ on a motorbike. Suddenly, I remember why I prefer Instagram to Facebook. The latter enjoys taunting me with the anniversary of past nostalgic happenings that I’ve tried really hard to forget – along with all the feelings that come with them. They’ve been sufficiently buried under my heart for five years now.

I bite my bottom lip as I tap the photo. Wow. Not gonna lie, twenty-two-year-old me looks so incredibly innocent. This version of me still believed in love. I’ll never be able to get that back, and the reminder feels like someone twisting the knife.

With a deep sigh, I scroll through the comments on the photo. I do this every year and each time, my heart beats a littlefaster as I read each one. They’re all from the same person, and all the exact same comment: ‘xx, Fost’. Once each year this memory probably pops up on his Facebook as well.

‘Fost’, also known as Foster, is the guy who broke my heart into a million pieces and left me questioning everything I thought I knew about love and trust. Five years have passed since we last spoke and even though I’m the one who decided to walk away without a second glance, my mind sometimes wanders to what would have happened if I’d stayed.

The memories that have always slightly lingered flood back as I stare at the photo, the pain still raw beneath the surface. I quickly scroll to see if he’s added this year’s comment yet but don’t see it, so I close the app with a shaky hand. Gen shoots me a concerned look from across the nurses’ station, but I only offer her a weak smile in response.

‘Everything OK?’ she asks, leaning over the counter that separates us.

‘Yeah, just a little unwanted social media trip down memory lane,’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

Gen’s expression softens with understanding as she glances at the date board. ‘Happy anniversary?’

I nod slightly, my attention now on my badges attached to my scrub top pocket. I straighten them, then grab my stethoscope from the desk, draping it around my neck and overly adjusting it to my liking.

‘Thanks,’ I say, only slightly bitterly. ‘It’s such a happy day,’ I joke.

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